The dreams returned the next night.
More vivid. More merciless.
Joon stood once more in the dim workshop. Dust choked the air, shelves sagged under the weight of half-born faces, and the lantern sputtered as though it struggled to breathe.
The man was there again — the Craftsman.
This time Joon saw more clearly: the hollows beneath his eyes, the cracked skin at his knuckles, the way his whole body shook as though years of silence had worn him down to ash.
On the table lay a figure.
Not yet alive. Not yet complete. Just a girl of clay, her form delicate, her lips pale, her eyes closed.
Joon's heart lurched.
It was Hana.
The Craftsman leaned over her, his breath unsteady. He brushed his thumb across the seam of her cheek as though the clay itself might respond to tenderness. His voice broke with longing.
"I can't bear this winter alone," he whispered. "If you would only stay… if you would only open your eyes…"
The silence stretched. The clay figure remained still.
So he bent forward — and kissed her.
Cold lips to cold lips. Clay against flesh that had not yet become flesh.
The lantern's flame flared violently, shadows jerking alive across the walls. The shelves groaned. And then, slowly, impossibly, the girl's chest rose. A shallow breath. Eyelids fluttering open.
The Craftsman gasped. Tears cut tracks through the dust on his cheeks. He cradled her face, whispering, "Live. Please… live."
Joon woke screaming.
The snow around their hut trembled like it could hear him.
Hana jolted awake, clutching his arms, trying to steady him. "Joon, what is it?"
His voice tore from his throat. "It was you!"
Her eyes widened, confusion—or was it sorrow?—flashing across them.
He staggered back from her touch. "That man… the one in my dreams. He made you. He kissed you before you ever opened your eyes. That's why we're here. That's how we began."
Hana froze, lips trembling. She looked as though she wanted to deny it—but couldn't.
Instead, she whispered, "Don't say it. Please."
But Joon's chest was hollowing, breaking. Their laughter, their kisses, their warmth beneath the falling snow — all of it, he realized, was not born of love, but of loneliness. A desperate man's plea for company.
His voice cracked. "Then what am I, Hana? If you came from his lips, what about me? Am I real?"
Her silence was the cruelest answer.
Hana turned her face away, tears streaking her cheeks. "Don't question it," she whispered again, but softer now, almost broken.
Joon buried his face in his hands. The world around him felt thinner, like snow that would dissolve if touched too hard.
For the first time, the warmth of Hana beside him felt like a wound.